refrigerator - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The refrigerator was an embodiment of everything that was wrong with her life. It was too small, empty and old. How could she turn 40 with this noisy machine that barely kept her milk from going bad for a couple of days? How could this thing with it's badly fitting seals that nursed mould in it's creases be part of her life? When she opened it she could smell the sharp scent of turning food and a few packets tumbled out at her as the pressure of the door was released. Maybe if she stopped buying Starbucks coffee she could buy a new one. But then she thought about the sweetness and the whipped cream, sitting in the leather chairs, enjoying the scented air and the delicate music. Could her refrigerator deprive her of all that?
In the corner of the workshop was a refrigerator, quite ordinary, white, with a smaller upper section above and a larger one below. Still Mac was curious, it was too clean. Why wouldn't such an appliance be covered in the fingerprints of the mechanics? He took some steps toward it just to observe the reaction of the workers, nothing at all. Likely even their lunches weren't inside. He wondered toward the workbenches until the owner arrived and repeated his test. Despite his efforts to be genial there was a tightening of his facial muscles and an involuntary hand gesture. Whatever was in there worried him. Perhaps this was the location after all.
In the corner of the kitchen sat a grotty little refrigerator. It hummed as loud as a small truck warming on a wintry morning and Elsa could almost see it vibrate. Given the state of the outside she prepared to hold her breath on opening it. There would no doubt be sour milk, stains and mouldy left overs. There were all of these things and a few more besides when she pulled it open, the old seals giving up the door with ease. Yet there was something else too. A small brown parcel still taped up sat on top of the half-eaten and unwrapped butter. In her surprise she let in a gasp of the putrid air, it was every bit as bad as she had expected, but still she leant in for the parcel, smeared with butter and the label half torn away.
The refrigerator stood like a great silver monolith in the kitchen. It stood as a testimony to the extravagance of our western lifestyle, oversized and full of cheese, cream and cold meat slices. How could we ever do without gallons of chilled milk at our fingertips night and day? Yet in an extra-twist of deliciousness, it was also covered in the fingerprints we are too lazy to clean off, fingerprints made by hands we are too lazy to wash after dirtying them with greasy food.